


Missionaries in a Foreign Field

by anr



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-24
Updated: 2009-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows he's thinking the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missionaries in a Foreign Field

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: _season two_

In the infirmary, John waits beside her bed while Beckett and his team work on Brimms. It's a role reversal of sorts, sitting while John stands, being the one who came back under fire while he kept the porch light on, but every time she makes to rise, John puts his hand on her shoulder and keeps her there.

"I'm _fine_ ," she insists, but John won't even look at her -- hasn't, in fact, since he pulled her out of the puddlejumper twenty minutes ago.

On the other side of the room, the melee of doctors and nurses still suddenly and a sharp whine fills the air. "Time of death," says Beckett, "fourteen-oh-five." There's a snap of latex as he sheds his gloves.

John pulls his hand away. She doesn't move.

  


* * *

  


For a mission that went so very wrong, the debriefing is extremely succinct.

"The Pion's attacked within moments of our arrival," says Lorne, his sentences like bullet points. "I ordered Reed and Kaufman to lay down cover fire while we retreated into the puddlejumper. That was when Major Brimms was shot. As soon as we were airborne, I dialled Atlantis and got us out of there."

She takes over. "Obviously, the sociopolitical situation on M7J667 is a lot more precarious than we first assumed. While the Ernec's _are_ open to trade, their neighbours -- the Pion's -- believe in total isolation. They view the presence of any outsiders as a threat to their way of life. Any future attempts at a treaty will need to be contingent upon the agreement of both communities."

John nods and dismisses the others.

"I won't stop going off world," she says, as soon as they're alone.

He looks past her shoulder, at her hands, at the ceiling, and says, "four out of the last five planets, Elizabeth. _Four_."

On Manton, they started shooting as soon as the prosperity blessings had been concluded.

On Loc'gli, they used slingshots and pea-sized pebbles that left bruises on her arms and thighs for eight days.

On Inviza, they didn't even wait for the jumper to land.

"I know," she says, and stands to leave. They have had this argument several times over the past four months and she no longer knows what else there is to say (there are only so many delegates she can send before their leaders insist on dealing with her directly, and she cannot invite them back to Atlantis for negotiations -- so far as the galaxy is aware, the city of the Ancients has been destroyed and she cannot dispute this rumour, even if doing so might make securing alliances easier).

John lets her go and she knows he's thinking the same thing.

  


* * *

  


She dreams

_of the pop-pop-pop sound of the natives weapons as they hit the sides of the 'jumper, major brimms in front of her, covering kaufman and reed as they retreat into the ship, major lorne in the cockpit behind them_

_of the faint vibration beneath her feet as the engines start, her body already sagging with post-adrenaline relief when brimms jerks suddenly, recoiling back into her, forcing her to fall with him_

_of kaufman yanking brimms off of her, the front of her jacket sticky with blood as she rolls onto her knees, kaufman beginning cpr, tearing away brimms' vest and pressing his hands down hard_

_of the blood, welling between kaufman's fingers, too many wounds to count, reed passing bandages from the first aid kit that turn dark in moments, wet and useless, blood everywhere, clinging to everything, a cloying, sticky scent that_

and doesn't wake until she feels John behind her, his hand on her shoulder, heavy and tight. She's in her office, her desk lamp turned low and her screen dark, an ache forming between her shoulder blades from having dozed off slumped over her desk.

John steps back, removing his hand, and she watches him walk around her desk and to the door. He's almost there when she finally speaks. "It gets easier," she says, staring at his back, "doesn't it?"

He is silent for too long. Then, "I'm assigning Major Graton to Lorne's team," he says, "effective immediately."

 _Ian Graton, thirty-three, trained in explosives, actually enjoys Ronon and Teyla's fighting classes, and has twice been officially commended for his conduct in battle._ Only now does she realise that John's still in uniform, that he hasn't slept yet, and the implication that he won't let himself rest until her team -- her _safety_ \-- is organised clogs her throat in a way sleep can't.

"Thank you," she says, and she knows that's inadequate so she adds, "that's fine," and hopes he understands.

  


* * *

  


In the morning she signs off on Major Graton's transfer, records a message to Major Brimms' family, asks Simpson to remove M7J667 from their list of possible allies, and authorises the next five upcoming off world missions.

Her name, she notes, is on the delegation roster going to Reca.

She approves that as well.

  


* * *

  


She doesn't meet with Kate about the mission, per se, but once a month she and John and Kate have a standing date to sit down and discuss personnel, and staff morale, and Kate's nothing if not an opportunist.

"How're you doing?" Kate asks, while they wait for John to arrive.

She nods. "I'm fine."

"No anxiety attacks?"

"Not since the wake." And even then, only the once. She remembers the morning of the ceremony, and the ceremony itself, but little of what occurred in-between.

"Nightmares?"

Grimacing, she nods reluctantly.

"Have you spoken to anyone about it?"

She's never asked John why exactly he was coming to her office at three in the morning, or for how long he stood there, his hand on her shoulder, before she woke, and he's never mentioned what she asked him. (Sometimes, though, during briefings or in the mess hall, she's caught him staring at her, eyes narrowed and concerned. She always pretends not to notice.)

Shaking her head, she says, "I'm fine," and, while she knows that's not the answer Kate's looking for, it is, she thinks, the truth.

  


* * *

  


Caldwell leaves for Earth, Lorne gets attacked by a sabre-tooth (according to Captain Reed's description; she denied John's request that his team be allowed to return to M3J735 for a second opinion, just in case), three of the biologists come down with pneumonia and she never does make it to Reca.

She can't say she's not relieved.

  


* * *

  


"You've been busy recently."

"Hmm?" Turning away from the ocean, she watches him cross the threshold, the control room doors closing behind him. "Sorry?"

He leans against the wall behind her and frowns. "When's the last time you took a break?"

She smiles, waving an absent hand towards the view. "What, this doesn't count?"

He doesn't return the expression and, after a moment, her own begins to fade. Turning back, she places both hands on the railing and squeezes.

"I'm fine, John. Really." Rolling back her shoulders, she tilts her face up into the sun. "You shouldn't worry."

He's quiet behind her, the sounds of the water below and their people moving about inside welling between them.

Then, low and soft, "I know."

When she turns around, the door is already sliding shut.

  


* * *

  


She tries going over Rodney's latest acquisition forms, the theta site proposal for M5J898, new transfer applications, even a handful of team mission reports, but she's distracted, and unable to concentrate, John's words now in her head, looping incessantly, _you've been busy recently_.

Leaving her office, she heads towards her quarters, not all that surprised when she bumps into John at the transporter.

"On your way to quarters?" she asks.

He nods. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really? Because hanging around the corridors in the middle of the --"

She interrupts him. "Walk with me?"

Without hesitation, he nods. "Okay."

  


* * *

  


She leads them down the tower, favouring the stairs instead of the transporters, though she doesn't really have a fixed destination in mind. She's not even sure why she's asked him to walk with her in the first place -- she can't think of anything that they need to talk about, pressing or otherwise, and after having his voice in her head for half the night, she's not so sure she'd even want to.

At the bottom of the tower, she stops, and gives him an embarrassed look, suddenly all too aware of the late hour and the mission he's scheduled to leave for in the morning. "Maybe --"

It's his turn to cut her off. "There's a nice view on the other side of this section," he says, shrugging. "You know, of the city and horizon and all."

She nods slowly. "Okay."

  


* * *

  


The view _is_ nice.

She forgets, sometimes, her first impressions of the city, the way her breath had caught, time and time again, during those first few weeks on Atlantis. She knows she doesn't take the beauty of their city for granted, not yet, but --

"I've been busy recently," she hears herself say out loud.

Beside her, John nods.

Frowning, she turns away from the view and leans against the railing, staring up at the city's reflection in the glass windows, the sharp lines and spires softening in the mirror image. " _Busier_ ," she corrects.

He nods again.

She closes her eyes. "I need to go off world."

There are no treaties to broker, no celebrations to attend. Her presence has not been requested by any of their neighbours.

She waits for him to say something, half expects him to say, _I know_ , but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything.

Opening her eyes, she says again, "I need --"

He moves, stepping and turning towards her, leaning in, closer and closer, until her hands are instinctively resting his chest. He cuts her off. "I know. Elizabeth --"

Leaning up, she kisses him.

She kisses him, and she knows it's an avoidance tactic, an easy way out of this conversation she's suddenly pretty sure neither of them are particularly comfortable with, but she's not sorry and definitely not about to stop.

He kisses her back lazily, his tongue stroking into her mouth, teasing the edges of her teeth, drawing each touch out. His hands are on her hips, tight and possessive, keeping her against the railing, the metal cool and grounding as her skin warms where he's touching her.

When he shifts against her, sliding his thigh between hers, hard against her belly, she fists her hands in his t-shirt and pulls him even closer.

  


* * *

  


She dreams of the mission, of gunfire and blood and --

John presses a kiss to her shoulder, waking her, as he slips from the bed. When he notices her stirring, he gives her an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he says, his voice still rough with sleep, running a hand through his hair, "go back to sleep -- it's still early."

Nodding, she closes her eyes.

She doesn't dream this time.

  


* * *

  


She catches up on her paperwork, books in a series of transfer video-interviews (each applicant will have two minutes of the thirty-eight minute window to explain why they want to leave Earth), and is on her way to the mess hall for lunch when the 'gate activates unexpectedly and Chuck waves her over.

"It's Sheppard," he says, keying the audio to her earpiece.

She faces the 'gate out of habit, resting one hand on Chuck's console. "Weir."

"Elizabeth," John sounds strange, almost like he's out of breath, "we have a problem."

  


* * *

  


"A problem," she repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Really."

Behind her, the 'gate disengages, sunlight streaming through to warm the back of her neck.

"Sure," says John, pushing away from the DHD and moving closer. "None of my team can read Ancient fluently."

Shifting her pack into a more comfortable position, she looks around the field they're standing in. "The initial survey mission to this planet found no traces of an Ancient civilisation. If anything," she points out, "the survey showed links to --"

"Hey, ancient scribbles are Ancient scribbles." He shrugs, a smile starting to appear. "All Greek to me and mine."

"Uh huh."

He starts walking away from the 'gate. "Honest. Possibly even Mycenaean."

Rolling her eyes, she falls in beside him. "You know, Mycenaean is actually an early form of --"

"So." Throwing her a quick grin, he waves an arm carelessly towards the hints of architecture visible above the treeline at the end of the field, his other hand brushing against hers just once. "Welcome to M8H373."

She clears her throat to dislodge the lump that has suddenly emerged, a smile breaking free. "Thank you."

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/364013.html>


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